I'm a writer. I write m/m erotica. Kind of dark stuff, even though in real life I like rainbows and puppies and kittens. Not all at once though. That would be overwhelming.
Here's a flash fiction piece I wrote last year for one of the GR groups. The picture prompt, from what I remember, was a woman in really short skirt and really tall stilettos stalking down a set of steps towards a surprised-looking guy in a suit. I don't remember all the rules, but I know we had to get the word "candle" in there somewhere.
So here's what I wrote. I like to think it's proof that I don't always torture my characters.
She moved as sleekly as a cat, in those high heels, short skirt, and legs that went on for-fucking-ever. Slinking up the steps like she was looking to rub herself against the nearest tomcat. Who would be Dan, by the way.
Poor woman, because what she didn’t know was that all those hours of effort—of plumping and primping and waxing and buffing—were completely wasted on Dan. That slightly stunned look on his face? Not befuddled by lust. He just hadn’t expected to see what his boss had for breakfast.
“Holy shit,” he whispered when I came around with the tray. “Did you see that?”
“Canapé, sir?” I asked him in my best waiter voice. Which was as shit as the rest of my technique, to be honest. I’d already spilled champagne down Brad-from-Accounting’s monkey suit.
“Are you still pissed off about that?”
“What? You mean being a waiter at my own boyfriend’s swanky corporate gig? No, I’m totally fine with it. Sir.”
Dan made a face. “Look, you know I couldn’t invite you. Besides, you needed the cash.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I said. “The only reason you didn’t invite me is because Cynthia fucking Montgomery is sexually harassing you, and you might get fired if she finds out you’re about as straight as Rock Hudson.”
“I beg your pardon?"
Shit. Cynthia moved as silently as a cat as well, and had somehow managed to circle us.
“You must be Dan’s boyfriend,” she said, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Dan talks about you all the time.”
Oh fuck. Really? Really?
Dan rolled his eyes. “Cynthia, this is Max, who is somehow under the impression that I’m not out at work.”
“Um,” I said. “’lo.”
“You look different without your hair all—” She made a vaguely spiky gesture with her fingers. “I saw your music video, by the way. You’re very talented.”
“Um.” The canapés wobbled dangerously. “I’m sorry I said you were sexually harassing Dan.”
“Oh, I am.” Cynthia raised her eyebrows and shot Dan a teasing look. “But no more than he enjoys.”
Dan laughed. “You look hot tonight. Sofia Vergara couldn’t hold a candle to you.”
“That’s why I love you, darling.” Cynthia took a canapé, popped it in her scarlet mouth, and winked. “Now, has anyone seen Brad? I hear he’s back in the market.”
“In the bathroom probably,” I said. “I spilled champagne on him.”
Cynthia threw her shoulders back, showing off her finest assets. “Perfect. Dan, I may be late to the office tomorrow. Don’t call me.”
She strutted off, looking fabulous.
I stared at Dan and he stared at me.
“Um, Cynthia seems nice,” I ventured tentatively.
“Idiot,” Dan said affectionately. “Dance with me.”
“I’ll get fired,” I told him.
Dan held out his hand. “You’re a terrible waiter anyway.”
I ditched the tray and followed him onto the dance floor.